Prologue.
Maria Daniela Torres.
Mexico, November 10th, 2002. 9:30AM
I lie down on the back seat of the car. the curves and bumps make my nose ache and throb. It's covered in bandages and gauze, and filled with cotton, with only two plastic straw-like tubes poking out of my nostrils. I'd seriously rather breathe through my mouth like I have for the past two years, because when I breathe through my nose it feels like the air is poking right into my brain and I hate that.
Everything tastes like blood, because the cotton in my nose is so full of it the blood pours out. This is like nose menstruation. it'll last a few days, and I have a tampon in each nostril, plus the sanitary towel-like gauze that is taped below it, and the insides of my nose hurt with the force of the strongest menstrual pain when I'm not all drugged. Luckily, I got an extra shot of pain killers and two pills before getting out of the hospital.
We get to my house and my parents take me to their room and give me the tv remote. Mom says she and dad have to go to work, but I can watch whatever I want until they get back at eight. I nod. in ten days I'll turn sixteen, but I won't be able to go out to the movies with my friends like we do on birthdays, because I'll be stuck at home with nose menstruation. I doubt anyone visits me, except for Alana. She always does.
The phone rings and I pick up. "Bueno?" I say. "Goodness, woman, you sound like your mother!" I hear someone say on the other side of the line. No one calls me woman, or speaks to me in english, except for Alana. I smile as much as the pain allows me to. "hey, 'Lana" I say. I tend to hardly pronounce the "A" at the begining of her name, and she always smiles when I do it. it's our little best-friend thing. "How are you?" she asks, smiling. She has a funny brittish accent, even when she speaks spanish at school. She only speaks english to me and her mom. I don't have an accent. I speak like any standard american... even if I'm actually mexican. "I'm fine" I say. "my nose throbs and bleeds, but that's normal" I add.
"Are your parents with you?" She asks after a while "no, I'm alone with Sandy" I reply. Sandy is our pet dog. She's a Mexican Hound, according to my mother. Actually, she's just a cross between a poodle and a schnautzer. "want me to come over?" Alana asks, worried. "Do you have the time?" I ask "I always have the time, Mar" she replies. "I'll be there in five minutes" she adds and hangs up.
I go back to my TV, and then I see a bright light out of the window. I walk towards it, even though I'm not supposed to even poke my head outside because my immune system is messed up due to the surgery and my allergies could kick in and make everything go wrong. I hear Alana call from downstairs, but I just stare at the light. I hear her running up the stairs and the grabs my arm. The light engulfs both of us, and then there's nothing.
Alana Gabriella Porter.
Mexico, November 10th, 2002. 9:30AM
I hang up the phone after Maria does. It's about 9AM, so I am still in my pajamas. I know, I told her five minutes, but both of us know "five" means "fifteen". I get dressed in a simple dark teal long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and let my curly red hair loose. Maria always says I should wear more dresses, and I say she should wear more jeans. We're so different nobody would think we're friends.
I'm english. the stereotype says I have to be elegant, square, boring and poised. She's mexican. her stereotype is messy, sloppy, lazy and a fun-lover. Neither of us fits the stereotype of our nation. Maria is a feminine, antisocial bookworm who enjoys writing stories and speaks too fast, and I'm... well... I guess I'm just another kind of awkward that's even harder to describe.
What we do have in common is the fact that everyone thinks we're pretty except for ourselves. She tries to be pretty, but doesn't believe it herself, even though I think she's beautiful... but not hot-beautiful, she's beautiful in the way a child is. she looks innocent and cute. maybe that's why she doesn't have a boyfriend. boys tend to think she's some kind of saint. I... well... I stopped trying to be pretty long ago, but she's convinced that I'm the prettiest person she's ever seen. I suppose I'm she child kind of beautiful too, with my round face and my small nose, I look fourteen instead of seventeen. I must say, people in this town aren't percisely pretty, so we both qualify as some sort of beautiful, but neither of us believe it.
I go out to my car and get on. I didn't even ask my mum for permission, but she knows where I'm going... well, she actually just knows who I'm going to see. she doesn't know if it's in her house, the cinema, or anywhere else, but she doesn't care. she never cares. This town is too safe to actually care where your child is going, I guess. We moved here from London a few years ago, just when Maria moved here from Mexico City. Another thing in common: we're both from insecure, grey, capital cities. I guess that kind of binds us together in a way.
I get to her house. I have my own keys, so I don't even knock, I just walk in. Sandy comes down, barking like the neurotic old lady-dog she is. When she sees me, she growls with excitement and wags her tail, jumping around me. I laugh. "hey, girl" I say. "Maria! I'm here!" I scream, surprised that she didn't come down behind Sandy. Her nowe must hurt a lot. she always flies down the stairs when she hears my car approach down the street. she says she already knows its sound. She's a little weird, but she's still my best friend.
No reply comes to my call. maybe she's asleep, so I run up the stairs to see her. I don't want to bother her, so I guess I will wait for her to wake up, and then she'll ask why didn't I just wake her, and I'll try not to look at her like I'm her mother while I say I wanted her to rest. She says I always act like her mother.
When I get to her parents' room all I see is the light, the open window, and Maria standing there. I yell at her to stay away from the window, and run to grab her arm. the light kind of swallows me too, and I can't stop it, but at least I know she won't be alone, wherever we're going. At least I know I didn't fail her, and that's my last thought.